Sometimes Love Isn't Enough
by Lemon Yellow Crayon
Summary: Susan chooses to forget Narnia rather than forever remember and wonder about it and everyone there, especially Prince Caspian. SECOND CHAPTER IS UP!
1. Susan

**Author's Note: This story is based on C.S. Lewis' books. It takes place just before the Pevensies leave for England in 'Prince Caspian'. I wanted to write an explanation for why Susan ends up being "not a friend of Narnia" in later books, why she forgets Narnia. **

**Yes, I wrote this during a depressed mood. I don't think that detracts from the writing.**

**Please leave a review!**

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When Susan was young, she had liked to read stories of romance and adventure, or dashing heroes and true love. In those stories, a prince on a white horse would come and rescue the fair maiden. They would fall in love madly, and their love would see them through all trials. The stories always ended the same way: 'They all lived happily ever after'. But the stories got it wrong.

Sometimes loves isn't enough. Sometimes the fact that you care only makes the pain sting worse. Sometimes not being able to give up a person is the worst curse, not the greatest joy.

She knew that she and her siblings must leave Narnia. She had known she would not see him again. But in her folly, in her foolish, foolish hope, she had dared to think the day would not come.

Aslan's decision that she should not return had not been upsetting. For her, Narnia would be forever tainted by the memory of _him_, the fairy tale that could never come true. And yet…

And yet she loved him, yes, loved him. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. When they had first seen each other, the lost look in his eyes… it was just as she'd been finding herself feeling. He'd always been there for her after that, had understood her even when no one else had. Edmund had joked that they were actually twins separated at birth. His joke was not bitterly un-amusing. How could two people so close be separated? And how could she stay?

To leave with her family meant despair and heartbreak. To stay without them meant the same. Either way, whatever she chose would be haunted by the memory of the choice she might have made. She would think about it constantly. How could she live half in Narnia and half in England?

The answer was simple: she couldn't.

But the choice was hard and pained her to make. Even now, she had not chosen. How can you choose between two halves of yourself? No matter what happened, there would always be questions about the other side. Unless you could cut that part out completely. Unless you could forget your second self.

And then Aslan had offered. He had offered to take away all of her memories of Narnia, to return her to England without remembering any of it. Not Trumpkin, nor Mr. Tumnus, nor… Caspian. She could forget them, go on living life as and normal teenager would. How could she refuse?

And how could she accept? To forget a world that was as much a part of her as England, maybe more so. It would be like forgetting Peter of Edmund or Lucy.

But Susan wanted it to stop. She wanted to stop lying awake at night, wondering what might have been. She wanted to stop trying to live in two worlds. She wanted to stop trying to bring peace and harmony to a heart split down the middle. She wanted to stop bring healing to others and never to herself.

But most of all, she wanted to stop putting up a brave face to mask her pain inside. She wanted her face to be just that: her face, not a mask. She wanted to feel what she felt and allow it to show. And she could never do that as long as she remembered Narnia.

She wasn't sure where it had come from, this wishing for the end. It had started slowly, after leaving Narnia for the first time. The awful, lost feeling. Not knowing who she was, or where she fit in. It had been a terrible feeling. Even knowing her siblings felt the same way hadn't helped her. She couldn't reveal how she felt in front of them; she had to put up a mask of strength in the hope that it would someday become reality. But even when the pain had dulled, it never had.

Then they'd returned, and she'd allowed herself to hope. But that hope was tossed back into her face. Everyone she knew, everyone she'd cared about and loved- they were gone. They were the stuff of fables and legends, as though they weren't people. As though they had never been people. Some folk didn't believe they existed, yet they had been her dear, close friends. Did anyone ever stop to think how that affected her, Queen Susan the Gentle?

No. And so she had been forced to continue, carrying a load that weighed heavily on her. A load which grew larger with every step as she saw how her beloved Narnia had changed. And then she'd met _him_.

He reminded her of herself, in so many ways. He had seen how she was feeling, even if he didn't know what it was. But he had turned away from the issue. He didn't want to know what she was going through. And Susan could never forgive him for that.

She knew why he'd done it. It even made sense. He'd had too many problems of his own, he didn't know what it was, he didn't think he could help…

But it all came down, in the end, to that he hadn't helped her. He'd saved her life in the forest, helped Lucy get through when she couldn't. And for that, Susan was grateful. But he had left her her far greater struggle, the internal one. He had walked away from it.

It had hurt her badly. But it couldn't stop her from loving him.

She'd never been one to dismiss love as a fairy tale, nor one to blindly follow it. But she knew now that love, without everything that makes it worthwhile, would not satisfy her. There couldn't be love where there was ignorance. There couldn't be love without trust. There couldn't be anything in a relationship where she hid how she was feeling, hoping he would notice. And there couldn't be love if the other person noticed you were in a bad spot and didn't help. But yet she had loved him. Or had she?

So she had continued, alone in her burden, surrounded by something calling itself love and yet showing it wasn't. Peter or Edmund must have noticed what she was going through. But they too said nothing. They were content not to know.

She knew that some of the blame lay with her. She could have asked for help a dozen times. She could have brought it up by herself, instead of waiting for someone to ask her.

But she hadn't. She had been too proud to ask for help. And now she would have begged for help, but there was none because it was too late.

She must choose.

But really, there was no choice to make. She couldn't live always wondering what might have been. The only way to avoid that was to forget.

There was total silence as she approached Aslan. "I have chosen." Her voice was strong. "I will accept your generous offer."

She could hear the whispers, the mutterings of the crowd. She could feel Caspian's eyes upon her. But she didn't turn to meet their inquiring, pleading gaze. She heard Lucy's muffled cry of "You can't!" and then turned to meet her sister's eyes.

Her voice, when she addressed them, was soft and pleading. "Please don't argue with me. You could have changed my mind once, but not now. Sometimes…" She took a breath. "Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes you just want the pain to go away." Lucy's eyes welled over, but she nodded. "I'm sorry." It was a whisper.

"If you're sorry, don't do it!" Edmund was frustrated practically to tears.

She turned to him. "I'm not sorry for my choice, Ed. But I'm sorry I didn't try harder earlier. Maybe… maybe I'd never have made this decision."

"We can still make this work!"

"No, Edmund. I can't." Her voice begged him to understand.

He didn't. His voice shook with emotion. "You want to forget, don't you? You want it to be over. You don't even want to try anything else! You just want to give up!"

There was a pause before she answered. "Yes, Edmund." He was shocked into silence. "I want to give up. I've lost hope. And I just want the pain to be gone. I want… I want to forget it ever happened, so that I won't feel the pain of losing it again." She looked at the tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry I couldn't be strong when it mattered."

She turned to Peter, who had been silently weeping. But he hadn't argued with her. And by that, she knew he understood. "Peter." He looked at her, and her eyes softened. "Thank you." He barely inclined his head, but the tears fell thick and fast.

Then she turned to Caspian. She had meant to say something, anything. But her voice would not work at the sight of his hurt, shocked face. If anything could have swayed her decision, it would have been that. But she did not, could not take back her words. Two tears fell down her face as she stared into his eyes. Then she looked away.

Her eyes met Aslan's. "I am ready."

He nodded. "Queen Susan the Gentle." His use of her title made her eyes overfill with tears. "Look into my eyes."

She did not obey, not at first. She looked over the hills, at the castle, at the courtyard, finally at the land. When she had first arrived in Narnia, it had been her magical land, filled with milk and honey. But it had gone sour, leaving her with only memories of its former glory. The very memories that now haunted her dreams. Faces flashed before her eyes, friends and foes, from her first visit to Narnia and her second. She would forever wonder about them. That is why she must not remember them. She loved her friends, so she must forget them. There was bitter irony in that.

She looked once more at her golden land which had gone dark. Or perhaps it was her who wasn't right in Narnia, not Narnia in her life. Or was it the same thing?

Then finally, slowly, she looked into Aslan's eyes. They were sad, as they had been the night he walked to his doom on the Stone Table. But he had known he would be back. He knew Susan would not. And so his eyes were a little sadder. The great mouth opened, and he breathed on her.

At first she felt nothing. But soon, it was as though she was surrounded in water, only without the cold or fear of drowning. Mist rose in swirls from her body. She knew instinctively that it would get rid of her memories. Suddenly she had a thought. What about Aslan? Will I remember him? It was too late to ask.

As the mist rose, her lips parted to speak two words. What if? But soon the mist covered her head, and she could no longer question her decision.

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**So wat'cha think? Should it continue or stay a oneshot? **

**I've noticed practically all stories based on Suspian are happy endings, but I think part of the attraction of that couple is the doomed love aspect. I wanted to write a story where it doesn't all work out, which captured the Romeo and Juliette aspect of the relationship.**

**Like it? Hate it? Suggestions and/or critics? Press the blueberry button to leave a review.**


	2. Peter

**OK. It's been a while.**

**Now this, I freely admit, is entirely my fault. This story is hard to write, for a long time I didn't have an idea of where I wanted it to go. However, I am pleased to announce this story will be continuing, though not as a full-length all out story. There will be 4, possibly 5 and definitely no more than 6 chapters total.**

**This story is written under multiple viewpoints: Things are going to overlap. That's intentional. Hopefully it adds to the story, if you don't like it, let me know! That's what the review box is for. The chapters here are written with the intent that you can read each one separately (as a separate, complete story) and collectively (as part of the whole). Hopefully that makes sense.**

**This story was actually based off the most random thing possible: I was studying the 5 themes (or parts, whatever) of grief in health class and thought hey, that would make a really good story. So each chapter is also sort of a personification of a part of grief. **

**And... this is a sad story. No, Caspian and Susan are not going to end up together, no, Peter and Susan are not going to return to Narnia. No, Susan is not getting her memories back. In some ways this story is also about responsibility- and living with your choices.**

**Anyway, I am now proud to present... the second chapter. This is Peter's story.**

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When you face something real, something tangible, how can you not be brave? When your enemy outnumbers you, yet you have the greatest being on your side, how can you know fear? And when everything's all right, what is the cost of faith? Nothing at all.

But what happens when what you face is unknown? When it is the uncertain that scares you?

What good is bravery when you lie in bed afraid of the dark, of the choices tomorrow brings?

--

Peter would never have considered himself brave a year ago. Bravery wasn't really a concept he thought about. There had never been a need to consider it. Dad, going off to fight in a war, he was brave. But when Dad had left, Peter had filled his shoes. And suddenly, there was nothing he wouldn't sacrifice for his family. If it meant running into the house to grab Edmund during the middle of a bombing or entering a magical land through a wardrobe and fighting a war… so be it.

_There are tears in her eyes, but also joy. Soon it will all be over. Soon, she will be home. She turns to face him, and in her eyes he sees the resolution. Nothing will change her mind. He sees the tortured pain and realizes his own part in this decision and in the same instant knows he cannot change it. Anything said now will sound false. He cannot apologize. He must simply watch._

The war had finished. He still didn't see himself any differently. Aslan crowned him, but inside he still felt as though he was just Peter Pevensie of Finchely. Not brave, certainly not magnificent. Every honor bestowed upon him felt false.

_"Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes you just want the pain to go away."_

But somehow over the years, being king had become as natural as breathing. He didn't think about it any more. And eventually, he thought about England less and less. The less he thought about it, the easier it was to be a king. Until, one day, he realized he had forgotten England. He hadn't thought about it in years. That was the day they all had returned.

He had been horrified. The sight of the lamppost reminded him of just how much he had left in England. His mother, father, home, Professor Kirke, even the housekeeper (now what was her name?) he had left, forgotten, all but dead to him. Indeed, they might be dead. He did not know. He only knew that if they were, it was he who must accept full responsibility for it. For it was his by his own selfishness and pride he had forgotten, he had indeed made himself forget.

He had been horrified. What a crime it was, to willfully forget your own family, your own self! And he had committed it cheerfully. He had chosen the honor and glory of the land over his family, his friends.

He had chosen to be High King Peter the Magnificent rather than to care about those whom he had loved. In his darkest moments, he wondered if he had not chosen to forget them because they reminded him he had not always been royal, not always been noble, not always been king. On the day Peter saw the lamppost, he realized what he had become- a traitor to his mother, father, friends and even himself in order to become the king Narnia had required.

_She stares at him, blue eyes troubled, but she is not really looking at him. She's looking beyond him, at the land she will forget in a few precious moments. What does it matter, what does anything matter any more? he wants to scream. It's all for naught, she will forget it in a minute and she will be gone, gone, gone forever. This must be death, to watch her choose to die to herself rather than live with the pain of her actions. He is drowning in air, burning like fire, wanting to scream and tear at his head for surely if he rips his head apart the pain will go away and anything, anything must be better than this torment. He cannot watch her leave. He turns his head and silently weeps into his arm. Nothing could be more horrible._

Then they had marched through the wardrobe door, and Peter had found himself back in his young sixteen year old body. All of the awkward ganglyness he had had at that age. All the knowledge from years of governing Narnia, but none of the respect he had there. None of the scars he knew as well as his own self. None of the trust and easy self-confidence he had acquired in his years. Just the knowledge and arrogance that a king had, but a boy should not.

He hadn't realized this at first, of course. His first reaction had been an ecstatic joy. Mother and Dad hadn't died! No one was searching for them, no time had passed and it was all right, it was all good, nothing had happened. For a few days, Peter had marveled at simply being back in England. He listened to Professor Kirke's stories with amazement, not heading his warning about the wardrobe. After all, Kirke hadn't been a king. He, Peter, was High King. He could come and go as he pleased. He hardly even minded being a teenager again. In the country, he didn't see enough people to remember how boys his age were treated. But after about six days, he headed back to the wardrobe.

He had intended a short visit. Just a warning to tell Narnians of the new situation, that he and the others were fine and not kidnapped. He also planned to meet with his council and explain how there would have to be adjustments made to their jobs as advisors of the realm.

He could not get in. At first, he couldn't believe it. He put his hand on the wood, staring at it in a perplexed fashion. Then he climbed out, waited a minute, and climbed back in. This time he kept his eyes shut. He pictures the forest in his mind's eye, where he had hunted only a few days ago. He walked into the wardrobe with his eyes closed tightly.

His head had smacked the wooden backing, causing him to fall over harshly. He stared at the wood, uncomprehendingly. He placed his palms on the wood back and pushed, as if he would push away whatever blocked him. Finally he sat. Unable to think, even as his mind was racing, he stared at the doors. He didn't notice when she entered the room.

_"I want to give up. I've lost hope. And I just want the pain to be gone." She can't mean that, she can't mean it! His eyes were streaming, he had lost all hope of face in front of the Telmarine people. And he didn't care because it was his sister, his beloved little sister, the little logical girl who couldn't conceive the idea of failure who was staring at him and telling him she was giving up. Because life had grown too big and too scary. Because deep down, she just wanted someone who loved her enough to notice when she was hurting and reach out and make the pain go away. But he hadn't seen, too wrapped up in himself. He had to bite his hand to keep from screaming at his selfish pride, which had already once cost him his family and would now rob him of all he held dear._

He had not even noticed her entrance. He had stared, unthinking, at the doors of the wardrobe. And amazingly, she had understood exactly what it meant. He saw it in her eyes, the last vestiges of the hope she had clung to slipping away. But she still had to see for herself. She entered the wardrobe. A scant five minutes later (or was it five hours?) she exited, wiping her eyes on her hand. Her expression had been one of utmost agony.

"It's true, then." His voice still held the question, the wish that it wasn't so. It was the thin, reedy voice of his teenage self. He hadn't noticed how weak it sounded before. Almost… pathetic.

"That we can't get in?" She tried a watery smile. "I think so. Ed told me he couldn't get in earlier. I wondered… I thought he must be joking, or have done something wrong." She stared at the doors, but he could still see the tears on her face. "What will happen now?"

He had no answer. He had simply sat by her side, staring at the doors that had once been their kingdom and now barred them from themselves. Hours later, Edmund found them there. He took one look and sat down and wept beside them. That had surprised Peter. Edmund never cried.

_It was not unlike Edmund to say such a thing. He threw out accusations often, but he had been careful recently to curb his slightly untamed temper. But he was angry now. And he wanted to shame Susan to silence, so that he might bring her back to sense. Peter knew his brother well. But he knew Susan even better, and he knew that this time, it wouldn't work. He saw the true desperation behind Edmund's half-crazed eyes. He needed his sister to stay. And he would lose her. Just as Peter himself would lose her. Suddenly he felt as close to crazy as Edmund._

And now he was watching her walk up to Aslan. Surely any moment now he would withdraw his offer, surely any moment he would tell her he could make the pain go away, it didn't have to be like this.

Aslan was saying something to her; all the Telmarines and Narnians were talking, so why didn't he hear anything? His ears roared as though they were filled with water, or in the middle of a battle. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, useless, unable to help. His sense should be overly alert, yet he couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Could only watch, and maybe not even do that.

Aslan was opening his great mouth, would he swallow her? Would he simply bring about her total demise? Was that she release she sought? But no, it was simply his breath, which shone like gold thread in the early morning light. It surrounded her, covering her. She looked a little apprehensive, and Peter seized what he knew would be his last chance, if it was not already spent.

He ran to her side. A murmur from the crowd grew louder at this action. What new drama was now in store? He put his face beside her hers and whispered urgently.

"Please, Susan. Just try. Just try to live, I'll make it better, I swear I will, I'll make it not hurt any more, I'll be there but please Susan, please, you must listen to me. You must stay. Please Su, I beg you. Please don't go." His voice was little more than a desperate whisper.

She smiled. She looked utterly at peace, totally content. For a moment, Peter was relieved. More than relieved, wild hope shot through him. She would listen. He had said the words to make her stay, and stay she would. But in the next instant his hope was gone; crashing harder than if he had had no hope to begin with. She did not smile because of him. She smiled because it was over. She could no longer remember. She was free.

And then she was gone. Fading, as the light did, just faded right out as if she was no more than a shadow which disappeared when the sun came out. He stretched out his hands to try and grab her, to keep her with him, to keep her as Susan as he remembered her. He could not even touch her. He sank to his knees. A moan escaped his lips. It was the sound a dying animal might make, something that had been torn and was left for dead. He couldn't remember how to use his mouth, his hands. Tears fell from his eyes as he remained transfixed in the spot his sister had died.

For it was death, for all that she had willed it and Peter had watched it happen. She had died to herself, to Narnia. Queen Susan the Gentle was dead. No one could deny it. Like a ghost, she had simply faded out of this life. She was gone. And he had allowed it, was responsible in some way for it. He had failed. Now he did not even have the strength to stand.

A sudden movement to his left, the flash of a blade. He did not even move, except for his eyes. They watched Edmund's blade slam violently into the tree trunk, deep up to the hilt. Gasps rose from the crowd. It was a feat of almost superhuman strength. Only Peter seemed to notice Edmund leaning on the tree, hugging the hilt to him as if his life depended on it, twisting his face in anger, sorrow and loss.

Gone, his lips were saying. Gone gone gone gone. She could not be gone. He could not have let her go, only now to realize he could not live without her. Could barely breathe if he didn't know she was safe. No, no, it was too terrible to bear.

And yet… she was safe. She was at peace. Could that ever be enough for him?

It might have to be.

As if from a distance, he heard Aslan's voice. "It is time."

His mind was too worn, too tired to truly realize what Aslan was saying. It was time? How could it be time, why did time even matter anymore? He felt as though he had run many miles in a race only to lose, and now just wanted to sit down. Wanted to sleep. Wanted to forget…

His head flew up with a jolt at the words he had thought. Was that what it was like for Susan? To feel exhausted, overwhelmed- to know only three people in he world feel as you do? To feel lost at sea, and to find yourself wishing for the simplicity of earlier days?

He grimaced. Only _two_ people now could come close to understanding how he felt.

But he understood what it had been like; at least he thought he did. It was so lonely it hurt.

But no one was truly alone. Susan had embraced her despair; it had become her companion. It had isolated her from the others. Until Caspian.

Caspian. He and Susan were so much alike, too much alike. In a different time and place, something might have come of it. But it was Narnia, he was the king without a castle and she was the queen without a horn. However sweet it might have been, loss was seeped into their life. And she was afraid, so afraid. Afraid to lose her despair, which had been her silent companion for so many years. Afraid to open up and be free, and laugh again, and let herself be drawn into heartbreak once again. So she pushed him away. Pushed them all away, and in doing so, lost herself.

Maybe he understood now. Queen Susan the Gentle was already dying, from the moment she saw the wreckage at Cair Paravel. So to her, this simply had been… release. The way to die with dignity and honor. Freedom to live again, and love again, with a full heart. The only price was giving up all she once held dear.

And he couldn't have understood this, couldn't have known that she found that a price worth paying. Not until he lost her, lost her so that she would never, ever be found again. Had she known he would find this out about her? Had she even known herself?

It was time. And finally, he rose. His heart was heavy, but it did not crush him under its weight. He understood something Susan did not. He had always been the protector of his little family. He knew something of the horror at the loss of a parent. He would not deprive his family of one person who would understand how they would feel in the next weeks and months. And slowly, once they could talk about it, talk they would. Together, they would be able to move on. They would heal the gaping hole in each others' hearts. They would be happy again.

Susan had chosen the easy way. He understood that now. She had wanted release and she got it. She had wanted happiness and now she would have it. But she would only see the world in black and white, when she might once have seen it in color. She would never be whole again.

But Peter would. And before he could move on, there was one thing left to do. He bowed, an elegant courtly bow, to the crowd. Then he walked up to Caspian.

All of them had said their goodbyes before Susan's announcement. Caspian was still standing where he had then, looking like a man who has lived a thousand years in a minute and seen much suffering. Peter pulled his sword, and scabbard, off his body. He handed it to Caspian.

The slightly older man stared as if he had never seen a sword before. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his hand grasped the sword handle.

Peter leaned his face close to Caspian. "It's all right, Caspian," he whispered quietly. "I swear it's all right."

He stared at him with haunted eyes. His voice was a cracked whisper. "I cannot be king. I can barely even stand."

"It's all right," Peter repeated. "One day, you'll understand."

He straightened and walked away to stand by his siblings. Edmund was staring at him as if he had betrayed something. Lucy was fighting tears. But Peter had eyes only for Aslan, whose eyes were kind and soft, with just a hint of a smile. He nodded his head slightly, just enough that Peter saw the signal. He turned and bowed to the Telmarines, to the Narnians, to the land. It was a bow such as a servant might make to a king. The people were shocked into standing. Then, Caspian slid to his knees. Immediately the common people followed suit.

"Thank you." The words were soft, like leaves on a breeze. He couldn't even be sure he'd said them himself. Then he turned and walked through the arch made by the trees. He saw Edmund's sword hilt buried deep in the tree. He heard voices, but did not trouble to pick out words. He walked straight through, never looking back. He had no need to.

--

His first thought was that the train station was quite lacking in the bustle and fervor with which he had left it. In fact, it was downright empty. The porters, the students, the old ladies with knitting and the Home Guard- every one of them was gone.

But he was here. And he was not alone.

The quick gasps that he heard on his left, that was Edmund. Not quite over his anger. Not over his tears. But his breath sounded like it did after one was plunged headfirst into icy water- the first breath, you're just happy to still be able to breathe. And then it's cold. Your lungs burn while your body freezes. Gasp gasp gasp. It was your body's way of not-so-subtlety telling you this was not a good environment, to get out and get warm. Edmund couldn't get out.

Because this was reality, wasn't it? Or as close as they were likely to come to it. They just had to live. Just had to endure. One day, they wouldn't even notice it any more.

Peter's ears were roaring. Already his head was flooding with questions. _Did that really happen?_ He saw Lucy to the left of him. It wasn't as if she appeared, it was just that… she was there. He felt as though she had always been there, he just could not see her.

But he didn't have time to even think about Lucy, because standing right in front of him was Susan.

Suddenly Peter was the one in danger of hyperventilation.

She was there. That couldn't be! He had seen her disappear, lost to him forever… He had known she could not come back. She was gone. Gone! But she was also standing there. And she was his little sister Susan, his friend and comrade at arms, for who held her head when she vomited after the torrent of war and held her hand when they had danced in victory. She was Susan who had stood down six full-blooded Telmarine warriors in full knowledge that she must lose, because she would not let them pass to follow her sister. Even when she didn't believe in her sister's quest, they would not interfere.

But this was not that Susan.

This Susan ran through bombs to keep her books from being destroyed. This Susan kept herself locked away because she was afraid of what others thought of her. This Susan did not have great secrets to hide that made her sound mad.

This Susan didn't shoot. She did school sports, of course, but she wasn't trained in archery. This Susan valued wisdom and practicality, not other worlds and cultures. This Susan hadn't learned the lessons of Narnia. She didn't know the value of childhood games. This Susan was not the sister he knew.

And yet she was. And yet she wasn't. Right and wrong all mixed together until it was indistinguishable from one to the next.

One thing was certain. Susan was very annoyed. Her cheeks were pink and her eyebrows pulled together in a knot at her forehead. She was also, well, not quite spitting but certainly hissing her words. He struggled to make out the words, rather than just sit and wallow in the pleasantry of hearing her voice again.

"Completely irresponsible, it is! And there's no excuse for it Peter, none at all, I don't care what they said! You're supposed to the one in charge here. You can't just go hit someone in the face because they bump into you. And look where it's got us now." Her voice became an almost forlorn whisper. "We missed the train, and have to wait at and empty station, the train's over a quarter of an hour late and we won't arrive at school until nearly eleven o'clock. This isn't the Dark Ages. You should know better."

Oh. _Oh._ His fight with the boy. It seemed a century ago. Briefly he recalled it, inwardly wincing at his horrible form. A slightly smug smile played around his lips as he imagined dueling with such a pansy.

Susan was not amused. "Look at me, Peter Pevensie. Do you think this is _funny_?"

But it was not funny anymore. Abruptly, nothing became funny. All because he was staring at Susan's face, and suddenly it felt like the world was ending and it was too much, much too much. Because her face had changed.

Her eyes were grey.

Not the grey-blue which were their color when she was tired, nor the pale icy grey that shone when she was being most regal. No, her eyes were a plain, unflecked grey. As if all the color had been washed out of them.

No blue spark, no bright shine of mirth, no warmth of ocean blue would shine from her eyes to his anymore. How could this be? He already knew the answer.

Susan must have registered the abrupt change in his expression, not anger but sorrow. Her voice cracked through the silence like a whip. "What is it? What's happened?"

It was Lucy, of course, who asked the unaskable question. "Su, you… do you remember Narnia? At all?"

Ah, Lucy, why did you ask? Why did you raise your hopes when we all know the answer that will hurt so much to hear?

Susan expression changed again. She seemed almost…exasperated. Good-naturedly scorning. "Lucy, you're not telling me you're still going on about that. Imagination is good, but really!" Her tone suggested it was not.

Lucy's eyes started to well with tears, Susan immediately looked concerned. "Not Mr. Tumnus or the Beavers or Reepicheep or…" Her voice faltered. No, Lucy, don't ask it. "Or Caspian?"

Susan's voice was very gentle. Peter winced at his mental use of the word. "Lucy, have you added some more to the menagerie? Last time you only talked about Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers."

Whereupon, hearing this, Lucy burst into flat-out sobs and buried her head in Susan's bewildered but comforting arms. It was impossible to distinguish a word from a sob.

Susan looked up, sending a death-glare at him and Edmund which clearly said "I will find out which one of you encouraged her and give you a lecture like you wouldn't believe or Now look what you've done!", depending on your point of view.

Whereupon which Edmund, who had obviously been clinging to the last tattered vestiges of hope, threw himself beside Lucy and it became impossible to tell if he was comforting her or weeping himself. Peter rather suspected the second.

Susan was now slightly frightened. She looked at Peter with wide eyes.

That was what did it. The eyes were the wrong color, it's true. But they were _her_ eyes. They were still a team. They would still help each other. And she was still here, in one way or another.

Peter sent a silent prayer of thanks to Aslan for putting them in an empty train station. This would have been rather problematic in a crowed platform.

He got up and stood beside Susan. They stood, hand in hand, encircling their little family. They had lost a member. They were lost and broken.

But they were together. And that was enough.

He whispered comforting words, trying to soothe Lucy and Susan, who was by now quite frightened by her siblings descending upon her in tears. No words he could say would help Edmund. Later, there would be healing. But now he needed to grieve.

"It's all right. It's going to be all right, Lucy." He whispered. "It's going to be all right."

He knew it would be. You can't change the path you're on- you can only live with it. Move forward. No second chances. You never need look back.

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**Next chapter will be either Edmund or Lucy, I don't know who. And now I am leaving you, because I require more than 5 hours of sleep in a night, and that's what I'm going to get now. Please, please, please leave a review if you liked it.**

**Oh, and yes, I did kind of hint at a sort of Peter-Susan thing. But take that as you will.**


	3. Lucy

**This is Lucy's chapter, but there's a lot a Edmund in it. He's a bit more fun to write :-).**

**I hope you enjoy!  
**

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The fear of every child is being left alone in the dark.

The fear of every parent is leaving one there.

---

Lucy wasn't afraid of the dark. So many children were, especially after the Blitz. When the bombs fell, the lights went out. Families separated. Homes and lives fell apart and were shattered in the dark. And all anyone could do was hide away in the dark and watch dreams and futures shatter. So Lucy understood the fear.

Dark brought destruction. Dark brought the demons in the night down upon people. Dark was filled with the terror of uncertainty, the fear that the next dawn would never come.

But come it did. It must. And that was why Lucy was not afraid.

Nothing could stop the dawn. It always came. The battle might be long; the bombs might fall and cover the earth in ash and soot. The swords might break, and the strongholds fall. And someday you might wake up and find the world you fought for, bled for, loved and protected, had fallen and forgotten and changed over and over until it was no more the land you knew. But even then, even as the world covered itself in war and hate and change, the sun would rise. Nothing could stop that. No power on earth could hold it back or force it to fall. And so Lucy was not afraid.

Because in the light came knowledge and freedom. In light, things could be rebuilt or remade. There can be understanding instead of fear. And the light always came.

Lucy had learned to wait a long time for light to come into her world.

And even now, she would fight for it to stay. Because that's who she was. It was something she'd always done, a choice already made. No hesitation. No fear.

Just patience. Just love.

But if love had ever been enough then Lucy would have watched the sunrise with a world full of those who saw hope and a future. Instead, light trickled thinly down to the masses that barely even raised their heads to acknowledge its existence.

If your world is darkness, light blinds. Hope stings. You don't want to see yourself there, in the light. You can't hide if it's all light. But in grey you can slip by, in grey the crowds will hide you. In grey, you can hide in an empty room.

And eventually, day by day, you'll try to tell yourself you're happy. That this is what you wanted. And when you can't even believe that anymore, you'll convince yourself it's your duty, penance for being born, toil for dreaming impossible dreams. For it was a dream, wasn't it?

Lucy had never understood how anyone could live like that. It was hopeless. It was horror to watch her sister slip into something more closely akin to apathy than anything she had ever known.

She tried to tell herself that if Susan was happy, then it was her choice. That she would be happy too. She couldn't bring herself to admit there were problems she couldn't fix. There had to be a solution. There just had to be.

--

Susan sat at the table, musing over a letter covered in rheumatic handwriting. She had been writing more and more to the professor lately, but his replies were hardly leaving her any the wiser.

She sighed and put the letter down. After all, the poor old boy was almost eighty. It was hardly likely he would remember all the occurrences of one small summer when he had been unceremonious deposited with four children in the middle of wartime. Still, she had hoped, perhaps _this_ letter…

It was foolish in the extreme. Why should it matter so much that she remembered that golden summer so little, except in its happiness? She supposed that the unhappy memories are the ones that make an impression. But it was sad to remember so little.

After all, was it her fault Edmund was so changed this past year? Hadn't she always been kind to him, even when he was so rude, just because she wouldn't play along with a silly game? Didn't he understand what a child he was when he acted this way? At least, that's what Bill said, and she agreed whole-heartedly.

Bill was Susan's "gentleman friend", as her mother put it. He was studying to get a degree at university and had taken a psychology class, so he knew what he was talking about. He said Edmund was an interesting case. Edmund didn't like him, but Bill said that was normal, too.

And since when, she thought rebelliously, have I needed Edmund to like _my_ friends? She had nothing to reproach herself over. Really, both her brothers were quite ridiculous.

Peter could be even worse than Edmund when he put his mind to it. She didn't see him as often now as he had gone into law, and frankly, that was just fine. Peter didn't rage and yell like Edmund. It was harder to write Peter off as insignificant. Bill said he was jealous, but that wasn't like him. He just had a way of looking at you- as if he wanted to see something else there, and you were second-best. It had made her angry more than once. But still, these days, there was something about Peter that made her irritated when in the same room as him. He talked a lot about justice and right.

Really, Bill had said he might have a child complex as well. Such basic ideas, seeing the world in black and white and seeing it as his _duty_ to fix things. He was probably right.

The door opened behind her and Edmund walked past. He didn't look at her or bother saying anything, just grabbed some bread from the larder. Munching it, he looked over at her.

The silence always bothered her more than his anger.

Luckily, Edmund couldn't stay quiet for long. He picked up her new hat, then threw it back down onto the table with an exclamation of disgust. "Is everything you own grey?"

Susan felt affronted. "Grey is very fashionable right now. I'll thank you not to treat my new things that way." She snatched the hat back and continued reading the letter, though she had in actuality finished with it.

"Grey is very fashionable right now," he mocked, throwing himself into the other chair at the table. "So's foot-binding in China".

Susan ignored him. She had long since learned that ignoring Edmund was the best way to fuel his anger and to get him to go away.

In this case, he just sat and stared at the letter. "Who's writing to you, anyway?" Who would, his tone implied.

She could have just ignored him, but saw no reason to. "It's from Professor Kirke. Poor fellow, his rheumatism just seems to be getting worse."

"You're not telling me he went to the trouble of writing you just to say his rheumatism's getting worse."

"No, I'm not." She was irritated. Why did it matter to Edmund anyway? "Anything else you want to know?"

Edmund flushed, and pushed his chair back from the table. "Your new hat looks like someone sat on it." He made as if to leave.

When irritated, Susan fell back on her favorite retort. "You're such a child, Edmund." And it was true, he was. No one but a child would be so stupidly rude.

True to form, Edmund stopped moving and turned to face her. "You're so fond of saying that," he spat, and his voice was bitter. "You've no idea… you can't ever understand. You think you understand so much."

Susan was stung. "I know a good deal more than you do. And even if I didn't, I can tell a selfish, spoiled boy when I see one! I don't understand? You're the one who makes yourself pathetic by trying to deliberately stay in the past."

"Don't talk to me about the past!" He was standing now, hands balled into fists. "Don't you dare," he hissed. "You, of all people…"

She stood up as well, mirroring his posture. "Who are you to tell me what to say? You're just terribly bitter, Edmund. Things can't be as they were, and you keep trying to change that! You can't accept the times we're in, so you'll never be happy? Why can't you just let go of the past?"

"This isn't about the past!" he yelled.

"Well, what is it?" she shouted back. "You, of all people. This is about some insane dream of yours that could never exist."

"This is about making choices!" His voice rose even higher, and he walked a step closer to her. She realized with a start that he was as tall as her now.

"I've always been able to make my own choices." Her voice could have dripped ice. She was staring at him, the force of her personality not in the least diminished by the slight memory of a time when choices didn't have to be made alone.

He gave a harsh laugh which was no laugh at all and turned away. "Of course. You've always been good at being by yourself. None of us matter."

Susan started guiltily. He sounded genuinely hurt. "Edmund, I'm not saying that," she continued in a gentler tone. "But you don't even realize what you seem to be. I hardly understand you any more. You act like you hate me. Surely that is reason enough for not including you in some of my choices. And for the rest of it, it's my life," she finished snippily, "and not your affair."

If anything, he seemed angrier. If her tone had been frosty earlier, his seemed to dim the whole room. "Hate you? What have I ever done but love you, and see that love despised by your _choices_?"

"If this is about Bill-," she began, but never had time to finish. His laughter cut her off.

"Bill? _Bill_? You don't know…" Susan was beginning to be a bit concerned. She put a hand on her brother's shoulder, but he shook it off as if her hand burned. "You gave up when it mattered." And then he was turning to face her, and his face was contorted in anger and disappointment. "You gave up! How _could_ you?! You coward! You **coward**!" He turned and ran out the door, slamming it behind him. He did not turn to see Susan, shaking like a leaf in the wind, staring at a plain wood table with a grey hat and a single letter, her eyes made suddenly blue again by the presence of tears.

--

Lucy had heard everything. How could she not, when her room was just above the kitchen?

Even if she hadn't heard it all, she could guess what had been said. Edmund and Susan fought all the time now. All one had to do was put them in the same room and sparks would fly. Peter had once joked that if they were ever out of matches, they could get Edmund and Susan to argue near some wood and they'd soon have a nice fire going. No one had laughed. Things that are sad are sometimes too true to be funny.

She had watched Edmund storm out of the house. Now he would stay away until night, when he would storm in, still angry, and hungry. She looked at the sky again. And possibly wet. In about a half-hour's time he would remember he had come in to fetch some papers and the new book Peter had lent him. He wouldn't return to get them, though, because he would still be mad at Susan. So he would blame her for keeping him from his interests, when in fact it was his pride that kept him from returning.

She saw it all as it had happened before, and would continue. She saw the sun sinking on the horizon and the rain clouds gather. Lucy kept watching outside. Kept waiting. She was good at waiting for the light.

Then— it happened. Just before the sun sank completely, the flash of brilliant color. The whole world was illuminated and bathed in a rainbow of colors. Just for a few minutes. But it was enough to give Lucy hope.

She stood up and picked something up from her bedside table.

--

Below in the kitchen, Susan barely saw the sunset. She was washing off the tabletop again, just for something to do. But as it got dark, she headed upstairs to her room and nearly collided with Lucy. She murmured an apology, and tried to move past.

Lucy, however, wasn't budging. "Look, Susan," she said, her tone awed. "Look at the sky."

Susan looked out. The sun was setting and there was a pale yellow glow on the back gate. "Pretty," she said, as Lucy obviously wanted to hear agreement. Lucy turned to look at her, surprised. "Lu, I want to get by here." Lucy murmured an apology and moved to the side. Susan, hat in hand, headed into her room and closed the door.

There were no windows in Susan's room. This was not exactly by choice, but neither did it bother Susan. Her room was fine; pretty enough, but without much touch of personality.

There was also something out of place in it. On the bed, there was a small pile of ribbons and fabric roses. There was also a little note. Curious, she opened the note and saw her sister's handwriting.

It was very short. _I saw these in a store and thought you might like them for your new hat_. Susan sat heavily on the bed, with a little smile of exasperation. She had thought at first they might be from Bill. But that wasn't really his style. He thought that little tokens and that sort of thing just took up space, and they weren't really necessary in a relationship as strong as theirs. While she agreed, such things were fun to have.

It was just like Lucy, she thought, to leave little tokens with such and understated note. She had obviously saved for the ribbons and made the flowers herself. If Susan accused her of it, she would deny vehemently that it had been any bother or cost anything at all.

She sat staring at the little pile. It was silly to be sentimental about some ribbons. But they were quite nice. And Lucy had thought of her, wanted to do something nice for her. Something special.

Bill would tell her not to bother making additions to her hat. He would tell her it was not sensible to bother adding more poorly made additions to a profession, chic hat. He would say they weren't right.

Susan sat on her bed, looking at brightly colored ribbons, a grey hat, and a decision that seemed to mean much more than just a hat.

--

Lucy rarely saw Susan in the morning. If anything, she just stuck her head in the door and said good-bye. So she wasn't surprised to hear the click-click of Susan's heels going down the stairs, and then the door shutting a few moments later.

With great effort, Lucy pulled herself to the window and looked out. She could just see Susan's silhouette walking down the road. She was wearing a thick blue winter coat, and, Lucy could just see, a grey hat surprisingly topped with fabric roses and trimmed in blue and gold ribbon.

Lucy smiled and lay back down, watching the light stream through the window and onto the ceiling.

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